Young Writers Society

The painting, the frame and the little things

Apropos. Her parting word, etched in black ink on a torn corner of newsprint. That was over a month ago now, but still it sat on the bench. Today he waited and she would be there at any moment. He had taken time to tidy up, move old pictures into slammed drawers, rinse the plates and sweep the wood floor. He wanted to rake the yard. Out there, it was like a Van Gogh scene, a swirl of bright yellows and fire reds and the lawn was the canvas. But he wouldn’t get out today, not in this weather. The sun came through as a lamp against a projector screen, dulled by the high clouds. The first snow of winter would soon fall.

He didn’t have time anyway. She would be here in just a few minutes, surely no more. The last of her things were neatly stacked in a card box. Worn down lipsticks, unused yoga pants, books and little things. Then the painting and the frame, tilted against the wall. He thumbed over the brass, amassing dust and casting it away with a long burring breath.

He scanned about outside, expecting, as sleet began to tick off the windows (the bay windows that looked out over the driveway, the ones she picked out and he bought.) And those damn sandstone elephants, one big, one small and one in between. With their trunks high, silently roaring. She would probably want them, too. He snatched them all into one hand and dropped them in the box.

He thought an impetuous, startling thought. He could take that crib, still fresh from the box, and those dangly little bright pieces that were strung from the ceiling. He would take them and stack them with the rest of it, for her to take. That’s what he would do. But a moment later he wouldn’t. He would wait for her, and send her away with the box of bones at the door and that painting of the ship rolling and gliding in an upset sea, shaded dark but for the collarbones of the full-chested sails in the moonlight. And the boat was empty because the artist had never painted the sailors. And the sea was a solemn brilliant sea because the artist had never painted islands. Why did she want it? It was his, theirs, he had won it at an auction and taken it home. He hung it above the cracking fireplace and the white rug. Then that evening they had lain on that rug, looked up at that painting, and fell willingly into a lovers' snooze.

He waited. Then he moved quickly up the hall into the room that still carried the scent of fresh paint. He tore those little things from the roof. And in the womb-pink cot, he snatched the unspoilt brown bear with the satin bow. He rushed to the front door and pushed them in the box and by the time he got back to the window, she had not arrived.

I'm flattered you requested me to come review this. At least now I know my reviews give you some sort of decent perspective. I'll try and be good about it here, too.

So this was meant to be some sort of short scene telling of two lovers who had recently separated, am I correct? Not to already point out the obvious. I mean generally speaking, it's not that difficult to tell. But it's not the basic component of your story here is I guess what I'm getting at. (would I call this a story? A scene.) As your title suggests, 'and the little things', that's where my attention tended to focus mostly on. The miscellaneous, the loose ends, or leftover possessions that left the two connected is what you strove to zoom in on. Bold choice, considering the whole dynamic of it, it could have all easily flopped. Had I written something similar it might have grown boring to read. But I think there was just enough spark in your writing to make it work. Was a lovely short piece.

Some littler things:

I had no idea what apropos meant, so I Bing'd it. Made sense afterwards, but it didn't strike me as common that someone might use that as a parting word. Or maybe you were just being suggestive. It was a little too vague for me to tell. Also, in starting off your work with this type of beginning where I felt tossed into a scene that I was only beginning to decipher out (not that it's that difficult to) and then have some word like that thrown at me made me a bit hesitant toward the beginning whether this might be something I'd in fact like to read or not. But this is just one's small opinion. x]

He wanted to rake the yard. Out there, it was like a Van Gogh scene, a swirl of bright yellows and fire reds and the lawn was the canvas. But he wouldn’t get out today, not in this weather. The sun was like a lamp against a projector screen, barely pressing through the dark high clouds, and the first snow of winter would soon fall.

This puts me in the mood of October and fall. The fact that you write stuff like this in so few words, not too elaborative but just smooth enough in your imagery, makes me a fan of your work in general. So melancholy, and crisp.

He scanned about outside, expecting, as sleet began to tick off the windows(;) the bay windows that looked out over the driveway, the ones she picked out and he bought.

I don't think there's a need for the parenthesis here. It's a little disruptive to the eye. No need to make it that distinct of a side note. Let it flow with the rest of the writing.

She would probably want them(,) too.

Why did she want it? It was his, theirs, but he had won it at an auction and taken it home. He hung it above the cracking fireplace and the white rug. Then that evening they had lay on that rug, looked up at that painting, and fell willingly into a lovers snooze.

If I'm not mistaken, are you perhaps suggesting here that the character still has some heart left for this girl? Bringing in something nonsensical and yet so sentimental to express his emotions was quite nice in my opinion. It also coincides with the gist of your story. When you start this out, I see you have your character expecting his ex to be showing up anytime soon. When you wrap this up you wrap it up with her still not arriving. When I look at this it only makes me put this together as if this all meant more to the character which the narrator was leading through the story than his ex. There was a point. A small one, but a point none the less to this little scene you created. I guess that's about all a reader can ask for. I hope I'm not way off in my assumptions though, because that would be embarrassing.

Though this was short and a bit simple for my taste, I did enjoy making sense of it. Nice work. ;]

-Smylin'

Hi JP! Definitely you can request reviews on my wall, that actually makes it easier for me to remember

Her parting word, etched in black ink on a torn corner of newsprint.

I like this sentence, but it sounds too rhythmic and almost monotonous because of the determinative-noun, determinative-noun pattern. It's easy to fix, though

He didn’t have time anyway.

This sentence seemed poor after all the pretty ones. It's almost dull.


I love the second to last paragraph, it's so pretty and enticing. All of this was, actually. I wished there would be more, but maybe part of the effectiveness is that it's so short. I actually really like these kind of short short stories, even though I'd want to keep reading -- they're like little windows to different human lives. I don't really have anything else to point out or other suggestions to give... I'm sorry about that. I'd like to have something fundamental to say, but maybe that will have to wait until next time.

Please write more soon!


Demeter
x

There are (appropriately) a lot of little things in this story which coalesce real nice-like into something else. Smyling pointed out that they were lovers, but the pink crib suggests there was a little more than just that going on, and adds that subtle extra layer of tragedy on top of everything else. Speaking of which, tragedy is something this piece really quite excelled at. Throughout the entire piece I was in a low-gear state of dread for the end, for when she arrived and there would be some kind of an emotionally charged, passive-aggressive confrontation. After re-reading the piece for the third time, however, I realized it wasn't about that. If I can get even close to the true point of the piece, it's about lingering feelings -- and you spice it nicely with this dread, which lingers through the story and just kind of dangles off at the end, never really getting resolved. Similarly, I imagine it'll be some time before your main character will stop associating random little things (there's our title drop again) with the relationship he once had with this woman.

The writing itself is stellar. Your imagery became so strong that I actually started smelling and hearing your story, which happens rare but is nice when it does. Furthermore, the thickness of your imagery is perfect for the length of the story, because any longer and this piece would have gotten exhausting to read. As you are now, it is just in its sweet spot. One little spot where you slipped a bit, though: "Then that evening they had lay on that rug, looked up at that painting, and fell willingly into a lovers snooze." Lovers' should have an apostrophe after the S. Not a big deal, but it was a little jarring, considering the quality of the rest of the piece.

So I apologize for the short review, but I imagine it's going to be a while before I can add anything to what I have already said. This is a piece that made me think, and I still have that lingering dread stirring just below my lungs, so it also made me feel. When - if - I have anything more, I will let you know via PM.

Your ship at seas,
cC

Very good writing here, sir. The first paragraph is solid. Establishes mood, the narrator's state of mind, and--even with just that one, first sentence--we're given some insight to "the girl." That she left because of some feeling, because it felt right to her...leaves you with a sense of abandonment that just permeates the whole piece.

a swirl of bright yellows and fire reds and the lawn was the canvas.

Amidst the rest of the solid writing, this part seems a bit flimsy. "swirl" "bright yellows" "fire reds" and "was the canvas" just aren't evocative and seem kind of generic.

The first snow of winter would soon fall.

I like that as an ending of the first paragraph.

send her away with the box of bones at the door and that painting of the ship rolling and gliding in an upset sea, shaded dark but for the collarbones of the full-chested sails, which reflected moonlight.

I much like this passage. The ", which reflected moonlight" seems a little like it was stuck on there absent-mindedly at the end, though. I might prefer a phrasing that takes out the comma-pause because we're rolling headlong at a nice pace through that sentence and then brought up short at the end for a mere three more words. You can keep the moonlight part, it's just the ", which" that feels tacked on or weak.

they had lay on that rug

Just minor nitpick, but "they had lain" is the proper form.
In present/past/past perfect, it's:
lie/lay/lain

Anyway, all in all, a well-paced, tightly constructed, thoughtfully worded piece. It all falls into place rather well, and I like all the things you communicate without actually saying them outright.

Joshuapaul, good sir. For you.

Focus

The beauty of these short pieces is that they can be so vivid and powerful. The trouble with these short pieces is that they've got to be incredibly focused in order to be vivid and powerful. You've done a pretty good job, but I think you need to decide what your central theme is going to be and try to stick to it.

In the first paragraph you write about the yard -- one of the most beautiful images you conjure in this work -- but it's not really about him or her, is it? I think you get it right in the third paragraph where you link the garden to memories of Her. But, in your opening paragraph, I think you really need to focus more on the main issue you're dealing with: the heartbreak of separation.

Flow

This is, for the most part, spot on. I love seeing how you fit sentences together and watching as you build them up into something that's almost organic. However, there are a couple of places where my tongue tripped while reading this:

(the bay windows that looked out over the driveway, the ones she picked out and he bought.)

Too much "telling" as opposed to "showing".

With their trunks high, silently roaring.

A verbless wonder that needs to join up with a real sentence, in my opinion.

Why did she want it? It was his, theirs, but he had won it at an auction and taken it home.

Why the 'but'?

He paced to the front door and pushed them in the box and then by the time he got back to the window, she had not arrived yet.

Paced? I thought that was something you did backwards and forwards. Also, please can you fix the last clause? It's a shame to see such great writing earlier in the piece only for it to be let down by a weak ending. I know what you're trying to do, but it doesn't feel like a perfect cadence. I think it's the "yet".

Images

I read a poem of Lumi's recently where he'd only used a couple of images as his focus, but had developed and extended them so that they filled the poem. That was powerful. I'm not saying you should take it to this extreme -- this isn't a poem, for starters -- but if you make sure all of your images link back to the overarching themes of loneliness and separation then that should have the same effect.

I love the boat in the sea without sailors or land. I also love worn down lipsticks! I think the best images to develop are those universal ones -- the poetry of the common "little things".

Also:

And in the womb-pink cot, he snatched the unspoilt brown bear with the satin bow.

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this, but if it's meant to imply that they couple had tried (and failed) to conceive, then I think that is a powerful theme and should definitely be developed more. Many marriages fall apart for that reason, and I think that would add a lot of depth to this piece.

Overall

I've wandered about a bit here, so to summarise: great wordplay as always, though I still think the description alone is not enough to let this piece stand up for itself; I like that it's short, and I like that it's very real, and I even like that nothing really happens in it! If you read this through aloud and pin down any more flow-related-problems you may find, then I think you'll be happy with the result.

I hope this has helped!


Charlie

Silly person. I don't particularly like poetry. I happen to prefer excellently-written prose. :P

That said, I'm afraid this piece just doesn't hit the right notes for me. From the first word on, the language just did not feel right, and this sense of something being off with the language kept building as the piece went on.

Starting with "apropos". As an adjective, "apropos" is used in reference to something else, but what that something else is unknown, and, quite frankly, I could care less. It just doesn't make sense on it's own, and in the context of the story, it is neither explored nor developed. It's just there, a "novel" word to begin with, and you could substitute it with any nonsensical word for all the relevance it holds for the rest of the piece.

However, looking at some of the images you incorporated, the "The sun came through as a lamp against a projector screen" in particular, makes me think that the word does have some relevance, however the connection is so roundabout that it is barely present. Taking the sun/lamp simile, it is not at all intuitive (for me, at least) that a lamp against projector screen = dulled. Lamps can be switched off, and unless the lamp itself is behind the screen, the light from it will not be dulled. If anything, the light from the lamp will fade out the image on the projector screen.

As I sad, roundabout. While the lamp and the projector screen are involved, they're not the agents immediately producing the actual effect, which is what you implied by omitting the mention of lamplight or an image being projected.

It could have been a powerful image, but it just fell flat for me, and there were others that fell flat for similar reasons. In short, descriptive pieces, you really must be painfully conscious of your word choice. A not-quite-right word here and there quickly add up, and it was this accumulation of "Is that really the best word to use there?" and "What is this image supposed to evoke?" that lead to the piece as a whole just not working for me since, as this piece was so brief, there was no spacing between these oddities to allow them to fade into the background of the piece. Instead, the oddity of each was magnified by the recency of previous oddities.

Now, as Charlie mentioned, a stronger focus would definitely help. This piece has potential, but it's currently buried under roundabout descriptions that make the piece feel woefully unfocused and scattered. While you could argue that this reflects upon the character's frame of mind, it could be handled better.

Try asking yourself what the most core theme of this piece is and tie in all the details in some way to that theme. The links don't have to be direct; you did a pretty good job with the description of the painting as it leads nicely into the character's thoughts.

Basically, tighten this piece up, and rather than use words because of their uniqueness, use them because they are the best word for what you want to convey.

Okay, so I actually don't have time to review this now as I'm swamped with calculus work, but screw calculus. I want to review.

Your story is very interestingly structured. Haphazard thoughts, scattered, unfocused and hazy to mirror the thoughts and confusion of the narrator. Despite, this precise enough to create a vivid picture of mixed emotion.

The unspoken presence of the baby tells yet another story. A painful reminder that his child will be stolen away.

You're a fantastic wordsmith and your exposition is some of the best around, and the last time I said what I am about to say, I got vehemently negative response. Nevertheless, there is only one way to critique this that I think will make my point.

You are above this low form of playing with a reader's emotions. Tell a story by all means, but you are far better than to tell one built only upon messing around with the readers emotions. If you want to make a reader cry, resorting to cheap tricks such as mixing exceptional vivid writing with a classical sob-story is not alright. So, as a writing exercise for yourself this is good. I don't suggest showing it to anyone else.

I posted something on here entitled "Abuse" ages ago, which was my version of this cry for emotional response from readers. I have since learned my lesson and will not be posting any story that is solely a sob-story anywhere.

Keep well!
Yoda

Eesh, forgot I owed you this one.

Apropos A random word? What's the significance? We don't know the context. . Her parting word, etched in black ink on a torn corner of newsprint. That was over a month ago now, but still it sat on the bench They have a bench in their house? What? . Today he waited and she would be there at any moment. He had taken the time to tidy up, move old pictures into slammed I don't like "slammed." It retains the action past where it should end, and thus develops a somewhat imbalanced sentence. Try again. drawers, rinse the plates, (Call me orthodox, but I like commas after the penultimate item in three-plus item list.) and sweep the woodfloor. There're two spaces here. Better fix that. <nitpick He wanted to rake the yard. Out there, it was like a Van Gogh scene, a swirl of bright yellows and fiery reds and the lawn was like the canvas. But he wouldn’t get out today, not in this weather. The sun came through as a lamp against a projector screen Oh, I like that imagery. Give me more of that. , dulled by the high clouds. The first snow of winter I thought it was fall, judging by the colors of the leaves. would soon fall.

He didn’t have time anyway. She would be here in just a few minutes, surely no more. The last of her things were neatly stacked in a card box. Worn-down lipsticks, unused yoga pants, books and little things. Then the painting and the frame, tilted against the wall. He thumbed over the brass shell, amassing dust and casting it away with a long burring breath.

He scanned about outside, expecting The verb "expecting" is usually complemented by a subject. Expecting what? , as sleet began to tick off Slang for "annoy?" I had no idea windows were so emotional. the windows - the bay windows that looked out over the driveway, the ones she picked out and he bought. And those damn sandstone elephants, one big, one small and one in between. with their trunks high, silently roaring Narrator was just looking at the yard, so at first I think that they are statues. Earlier clarification would be nice. . She would probably want them, too. He snatched them all into one hand and dropped them in the box.

He thought an impetuous, startling thought. He could take that crib, still fresh from the box, and those dangly little bright pieces that were strung from the ceiling. He would Would, or could? Synchronize your verbs. take them and stack them with the rest of it, for her to take. That’s what he would do. But a moment later he wouldn’t Oddly phrased. . He would wait for her, and send her away with the box of bones Box of bones? Why a box of bones? And why would she want it? at the door and that painting of the ship rolling and gliding in an upset sea, shaded dark but for the collarbones of the full-chested sails in the moonlight. And the boat was empty because the artist had never painted the sailors. And the sea was a solemn brilliant sea because the artist had never painted islands. Why did she want it? It was his Is this an attempt to answer his last thought? If not, as I suspect, reword this so that there's less of a link connecting the two statements. , theirs: he had won it at an auction and taken it home. He hung it above the cracking fireplace and the white rug. Then that evening they had lain on thatthe rug, looked up at thatthe painting, and fell willingly into a lovers' snooze.

He waited. Then he moved quickly up the hall into the room that still carried the scent of fresh paint. He tore those little things from the roof I like this sentence. It's deeper than it appears on the surface, and very eloquent in that respect. . And in the womb-pink cot, he snatched the unspoilt brown bear with the satin bow. He rushed to the front door and pushed them in the box and by the time he got back to the window, she had not arrived.

Good work, as always.

-Kafka